(with contributions from Paul Marshall and Paul Lacques)

Keep it Mediterranean! Explore olives, tomatoes, fresh herbs, sharp chilled white wines. Here’s one idea: Grilled lamb. A brusque Retsina. Berries for dessert. Summer is all about nature’s bounty. Take these months to savor and meditate upon Sun-Ripened Fruits And Vegetables.

Let your tongue linger on the sharp flavors. Save Winter for creamy sauces, stews, and cooked-through vegetables.Get romantic! Marry sheep’s milk cheeses with your leafy greens. Toss in balsamic vinaigrette, toasted nuts and ready to burst cherry tomatoes. From Neptune’s spice cabinet: sprinkle where you will with Mediterranean sea salt, the seasoning of Zeus and his Gods.

But don’t toss your trident unless you’re willing to keep the catch. .

We have a live radio performance today, at sunny 1 p.m. This is our only link to career mindset, for we have severed all other adult responsibilities and are deep in rock and roll on the road. It didn’t take long. Wheels are still our means of transformation. Only a short mantra of highway whine and we are on the other side. Whiskey seals the deal. The other side is the place to be, if you can get away with it. Multiplatinum sales, fearlessness, or innocence will keep you there.
At chez Waller on the hill over the harbor Rob makes eggs from no apparent ingredients, the first confirmable Miracle of the tour. We pack, descend in Yukon from Tiburon, south across the Golden Gate into The City. Rob becomes a San Franciscan, guiding us solidly through the labyrinth. We’re greeted at the building on 2nd just south of Market by Tim Lynch, KPIG AM host, and his lovely assistant. .

[continue reading…]

There’s no business like show business. Indeed. Day three of the Hawks tourette brought the Hawks into the gentle yellowing hillsides of western Marin and the hallowed hall of Rancho Nicasio, nestled in a flat valley near a poignant old wood church with archetypical steeple and cross, little valley surrounded by rolling hills with cattle, burros, and rusting barb wire fences. The Rancho started as a stagecoach stop in the 1880s but it still retains the 1950s supper club style it has carried along now for half a century. White linen table clothes and little crystal candle holders.

And the promise of backline. A gig that was originally booked as a Lacques doubleheader, with Matthew’s band, Nearly Beloved, opening for I See Hawks In L.A. in the psychic center of Not L.A. Would the brotherhood embodied onstage flow out into the assembled throng and break down the interstate love barrier? Not this time. Tony Joe White became available to play that night, so he became the headliner, and Hawks the opener. Bye, brother. But, no problem. We like playing with legends.

[continue reading…]

We are coming down fast yet gently from our Area Of The Bay day’s adventures. Shawn visited his drummer good bud Rob in Glen Albyn. Is that Welsh? Scottish? Rob was off on a secret mission, no doubt attempting to retrieve the scattered pieces of his soul, seeking Horcruxes long forgotten in his old San Francisco haunts. Paul L went on a hike in the very dry Marin hills with his brother Peter and Pete’s girlfriend Patti. It was a reconnection with the joys of heat. It was hot on the dusty trail. It felt good. Poppies were scattered among the dry grass, yellow cheery survivors among the tall dead.

Fairfax is a wonderful little town. Its unofficial self description, on bumper stickers in the tourist shop, is “Mayberry On Acid.” And it’s undeniably Mayberry on this hot Thursday afternoon. Peter and Patti know everyone on the streets, from the deeply tanned and serenely deranged 1965 original bacchanalian to the Euro botanist who knows every plant species from here to the ocean, to golden youth lying on grass in the redwood shaded little park, a perfect little park, like we all should have idylled in in youths spent instead on anxious concrete, with background noise. Yes, parents love their children everywhere, but here the children seem to get what they need.

[continue reading…]

June. June of the 21st century. June of a drying California. Yellow hills from Highland Park through the Grapevine, relieved by one strange hillside of mottled blues and greens, and a steep slope blackened from a fire, like a burnt hunk of bread. We’re on the 5 north again. How many times have we done this drive? The same thoughts are triggered by the same monuments:

Gorman. A 1968 family trip into the deep hills, Indian artifacts, a spring, an Old Californio family ranch. Lebec. My aunt Chinky and her single wide full of sons. The 5/99 divergence. Mystery. The 99 not taken. Systems collapse. Mesopotamia was green. As were we.Rob has a new cell phone, the Sony Ericsson. It delivers email, FM, XM, video, has a guitar tuner, and an on call suicide watch. It’s a gateway device to the iPhone. Rob is sitting in the back seat of the Yukon, programming Sony Ericsson, reading the manual, with the calm that only people born after 1970 can manage. He hasn’t called tech support even once, and we’re halfway to Berkeley.

Paul M sits next to Rob, paying his bills, renewing his membership in NORML. Shawn is driving and talking on his cell. Paul is wired on chocolate infused trail mix, hence this blog.To Berkeley. Where we’re playing at Strings, a private music joint and living remnant of hippiedom, like a Gaeltacht village clinging to a Donegal cliffside. The pastoral nature of Strings is effectively concealed by a down and out San Pablo Street storefront, but inside await Moroccan pillows, vibrant art and drapery, a green and cool inner courtyard, and good good good good vibrations.

Rob’s nostrils are burning from the infamous CCC (cow concentration camp, aka Kauschwitz, Kracow, Bergen Bessie). Beef. It’s what’s for dinner.

[continue reading…]

A grand time was had by all at our CD release party yesterday evening at the Grand Old Echo, thank you Kim and Pam, hostesses with the mostessness.

Our big day started a bit too early for comfort: we met Watusi Rodeo radio host and L.A. roots music kingpin Chris Morris at a Miracle Mile coffee shop at 8:15 a.m. for some desperately needed caffeine. Paul L opted for green tea instead of coffee, then decided he had to have a chocolate cookie, for which he was mocked by aforementioned radio host. Paul M and our old acquaintances the Mother Truckers arrived simultaneously, with a sleep deprived Rob chugging past in the soon to be obsolete Hawks Yukon, seeking parking.The caffeine buzz was mild at best but the adrenaline kicked in just as Chris finished up a Bo Diddley tribute medly, and we leaned into the big mics and sang our hearts out. Witty banter with the witty Chris, some more songs, long treks down labyrinthine halls of the gleaming Variety building, and we were out of there, back into the still still morning air of Los Angeles in the first decade of the 21st century.

Some of us napped, but not Paul M, who drove to Irvine for an outdoor party gig. The man is made of iron, and he comes to play.We all arrived late for our own party of course, quickly set up our gear at the Echo with the sun still burning in the west. Old Californio blazed through a set of their irresistible songs and good vibes. Mike Stinson did his lone troubadour acoustic show, the last hero standing in the honky tonk.

Photos by Rena Kosnett

The goddess like if not actual goddesses Chapin Sisters mesmerized the room with three songs, backed up by the Hawks. See it captured in print by the L.A. Weekly blog.

Then we were by ourselves and slowly but surely lifted off, from a rush of energy by the packed out crowd. It passed as if in a moment, a few encores and we were swamped by our very good friends and family. What a night. .

A decidedly and defiantly LA band, the Hawks never shy away from political or environmental statements. Or humor. On their musically accomplished, more-cosmic-folk-than-country fourth album (which namechecks local byways, geographical points and musicmaking pals Mike Stinson, Tony Gilkyson and Kip Boardman), the wit’s even more cynical — and necessary, to temper the rage fueling “Carbon Dated Love,” “In the Garden,” “Environmental Children of the Future” and grimly amusing “Ever Since the Grid Went Down.” In that context of loving life, nature and land that nurtures it, the heart-tugging title track assumes multiple meanings (“There’s a child and a mortgage sleeping in our bed/ I’m wide awake with these worries in my head”). — Bliss

This band’s secret is idiosyncratically unusual songwriting. Waller and guitarist Paul Lacques write like hip university professors, or post-countercultural novelists, and their lyrics are fascinating and full of provocative ideas, a rarity in rock.

“Yolo Country Airport” is a cool, dramatic song about flying home as potential superstars. “Carbon Dated Love,” an existentialist, epiphanous tale about two hikers becoming one with nature, is a marvel of imagist detail. “Environment Children of the Future,” a ballad, balances sincerity about ecological awareness among young people with a killer “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah” chorus. The apocalyptic rocker “Ever Since the Grid Went Down” imagines being forced to live “like an honest man” – it’s meant ironically – in order to survive a societal collapse. A detour into Celtic music is ill-advised and the production by Lacques could be more forceful. But this is one fascinating band.

Standout Tracks: “Carbon Dated Love,” “Ever Since the Grid Went Down” — STEVEN ROSEN

Despite rumors of its untimely demise, L.A. country is, in fact, still alive and well. It’s just gone underground – or rather, taken to the skies. I See Hawks in L.A. is that rare local bird, an Americana act in a city where rock rules the roost. “[We’re] sort of mavericks,” states lead singer Rob Waller (at right, with Shawn Nourse, left, Paul Lacques and Paul Marshall). “Sometimes people will say, ‘Oh, I see hawks’ and you tell your hawk stories.”

[continue reading…]

The Hawks new album Hallowed Ground hit the big #1 on the Freeform American Roots chart in May, narrowly beating out folk goddess Eliza Gilkyson and Texas standard bearer Hayes Carll. FAR charts are compiled from maverick roots country DJs around the globe, the ones that play exactly what they feel like playing.

Far left of left lefty Paul L and his further left mom are quite pleased at this review that appeared in Counterpunch:

Robins WeepBy RON JACOBS

Some days I wake up and the music I hear in my head is the chorus to Hank Williams’ “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.” All day long I hear that lonesome whippoorwill until night finally falls, the midnight train whining in the distance. It’s not that I’m lonely or anything, mind you, yet that haunting chorus becomes the day’s soundtrack.There’s a band out of southern California that renders music as uniquely forlorn as any Hank Williams tune. The name of that group is, somewhat mysteriously, I See Hawks In LA. Composed of founder Rob Waller on acoustic guitar and lead vocals, guitarist Paul Lacques, former Strawberry Alarm Clock bassist Paul Marshall and percussionist Shawn Nourse, I See Hawks In LA bring experienced musicianship (and many experienced guest musicians) to their work. Echoes of the Byrds and Gram Parsons and even The Holy Modal Rounders inform the music this group makes while its lyrics touch on themes of war, peace, freedom, family and that greatest topic of all, love. Sometimes the lyrics are full of humor and sometimes they are full of sadness. Sometimes they sing of the counterculture and sometimes one hears ironic commentary on today’s commercial culture of brands and empty meaning. Waller’s vocal delivery is a countrified alto that capably evokes whichever emotion the song hopes to convey.

Click here to continue reading ROBINS WEEP—–